


To the Daylight

by toyhto



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:16:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: After a crappy day, Thomas drives to London.





	To the Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> This story happens right after the ending of the season 3 finale, so no spoilers for season 4 (which I haven't seen yet) but definitely spoilers for season 3 finale. Also, I hope the rating isn't too low! If you feel that this should be rated as Explicit, please let me know. I usually write somewhat vague M-rated sex scenes but I couldn't keep Thomas Shelby's word choices always so vague.
> 
> And I don't have a clue about how to write suitable dialect for gangsters in 1920's England, so I'm not really trying to. Bear with me, guys. And, finally, half of my headcanons about Tommy and Alfie probably come from awesome fics by Magnetism_bind, especially [Put Your Hands On Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4046281). Just saying.

It’s the wrong choice. Of course it is. He should be at home with his boy. He should be driving to his house as fast as he could right now. But he’s taking the road to London instead. Of course it’s the wrong fucking choice.  
  
He wraps his fingers around the wheel until they go numb. So, this is how it goes now. He does business with the wrong people and goes to the other wrong people to fix it. He messes up and they take his son. He gets his son back and the rest of his family arrested. To fix _this_ , he’s going to do business with wrong people again, because it’s the only way he can fix anything and also everyone is _wrong_. At least Charlie is safe. _At least Charlie is safe.  
  
_ He drives faster. He’s going to be back before the night. Before morning, at least. Maybe by noon. Or he could turn back right now, do the right thing, go to his son, play with him, take a walk in the park. If only he was someone else.  
  
It’s a sunny day, a nice day, a beautiful day. Charlie wouldn’t know that something is wrong. Charlie wouldn’t have a fucking clue that his father just watched his whole family get arrested for the mess _he_ made because he couldn’t _fucking stop._ He takes a sharp breath and fixes his eyes on the road, on the road, _on the road_ , he has to concentrate now. Charlie is safe. He’ll fix everything else later. But right now he can’t do anything. The nurse will take Charlie to the park today. He can’t. His hands are shaking again and he thinks that maybe it’s hitting now, the feeling of being buried underneath the ground in that tunnel. And the head injury feels like a church bell inside his skull, distant but never stops. Since he quit the morphine he’s tried not to think about it but now there’s nothing else left, now that he has to close his eyes for a second because of the headache and the car almost ends up in the ditch. That would suit him well. Thomas Shelby in a ditch. With his fucking high hopes for himself. And how the fuck did he mess up so -  
  
It’s already getting dark when he gets to London. It was probably the wrong choice not to shoot Alfie Solomons, but also it’s probably why he can now drive through the city to the bakery. No one stops him. No one would dare. London is still his. He climbs out of the car and tries to blink the headache away but it stays, the heavy ringing in his ears. He walks in anyway and they let him. Only because they know who he is. Solomons doesn’t know he’s coming. Solomons can’t know that.  
  
He walks to Solomons’ office and glances at the man’s face. Solomons fucking knew he’d come. He tries to swallow it away but his throat feels tight. Solomons doesn’t even look at him, just nods at the chair. “Sit down, Tommy.”  
  
He sits. His knees are hurting now as well. Must be because of the crawling in the tunnel. But he can’t fall apart now that he has to fix everything again. Maybe this is going to be the last time he fixes things up.  
  
Of course it isn’t going to be the last time.  
  
“Came here to finish the job?” Solomons asks.  
  
Tommy opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Solomons finally glances at him.  
  
“You didn’t,” Solomons says with a hint of a smile. “I fucking knew it. I knew you wouldn’t kill me.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Tommy says in a dry voice. He’s not sure when was the last time that he’s been this tired.  
  
“So I’m smarter than you,” Solomons says, “who would’ve thought.”  
  
He leans his back into the chair. Fucking _shit._ He’s not going to stand up now, not even if Solomons pulls out his gun and points it at his head. He’s too tired. And he can’t bear to go home and see his son who almost _died_ because of all this fucking _nonsense.  
  
_ “And more handsome,” Solomons says, “but that we knew already, didn’t we? And stronger. I’m definitely stronger than you.”  
  
“I’m the handsome one,” Tommy says and bites his lip, but the words are out already. And Solomons smiles in a way that should make him scared, should make him figure out a way to get out of this if things actually get bad. But he can’t. He can just sit here and let the words slip out, or so it seems, wondering in his hazy mind what Alfie Solomons is going to do with him.  
  
“Oh,” Solomons says now, “ _oh._ You’re the handsome one?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You’ve been lied to, boy,” Solomons says and lights up a cigarette, which seems like a good sign. Solomons’ voice is calm, almost bored. Solomons’ going to stay calm and bored even if Thomas falls into pieces right in this fucking chair. “You aren’t _handsome._ Maybe you’re pretty. I can give you that. But _handsome?_ No.”  
  
“Yeah,” he says and licks his lips. Solomons stares at his mouth but only for a second. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe _he_ did it by an accident. Maybe his lips were just dry. But accidents aren’t really a thing in his world. Mistakes are, though. _Clearly._ And Charlie could be dead right now, and what would he do then? What would be left of him?  
  
“You’re pretty,” Solomons says and stares at him over the desk. It feels good. It makes him nervous and keeps him from thinking about Charles for a second. “Just be happy with that.”  
  
“Pretty?” he whispers. Of course he doesn’t have a fucking idea what he’s doing. Sometimes he thinks that he rarely does. It’s just luck. And maybe he’s pretty.  
  
“Thomas,” Solomons says in a voice that’s actually serious, “I don’t think you mean what you say. You want to know what I think?”  
  
“Fuck no.”  
  
“I think you almost lost the one thing that stills means anything to you,” Solomons says, leaning back in his chair, “and now you hate yourself so much that you can’t handle it anymore.”  
  
“You said I’m pretty,” he says, barely audible.  
  
Solomons shakes his head slowly and then takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Fucking pretty.”  
  
Tommy blinks.  
  
“I could, you know,” Solomons says, and the calm voice is on again even if there’s something hesitant in his eyes, “fuck you on this fucking table. Right now. Because it kind of looks like that’s what you’re looking for.”  
  
He just stares at Solomons. That’s not what he’s looking for. Maybe. Maybe a punch in the face would be enough.  
  
Maybe not.  
  
“Thomas Shelby,” Solomons says, tilting his head to the right, “on my fucking table. I might take the time to get you out of those ridiculous clothes at first. Just because you’re pretty.”  
  
He shivers and then freezes but of course Solomons noticed.  
  
“Oh _fucking hell_ ,” Solomons whispers, then takes a bottle and pours himself a glass of whiskey.  
  
“You aren’t going to give me some?” Tommy asks, when Solomons takes a sip of his glass.  
  
“No. It’ll make your head hazy.”  
  
“My head is hazy.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Solomons says. “I’ll fix that for you. But not on the table. At my place.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Listen,” Solomons watches him, “you want me to fuck you. You aren’t going to say it but that’s what you want. I don’t care to do that kind of things in the office. So, you aren’t going to tell anyone I fucked you in my own bed and I’m not going to tell anyone you got fucked.”  
  
He stares and stares and stares at Solomons and then he nods.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Solomons gives him a glass of red wine anyway. He takes it. The house is like any other, a nice place in a respectable neighbourhood. Old furniture, barely any paintings. No signs of anyone else living here. He wonders briefly if Solomons brings women here and then bites his lip.  
  
“No,” Solomons says, standing in the doorway and watching him, “I don’t.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Women. I don’t do women.”  
  
He swallows. The taste of the wine still lingers. “Fine.”  
  
“Fine?” Solomons says, slightly amused or acting, but why would he? Tommy’s standing right here in Solomons’ living room. The doors are locked. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going, of course not, he barely told himself. Solomons has him.  
  
“ _Fine._ ”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Solomons says, “you’re just talking. You like women. I can tell. But you’ve done this before. In France, right?”  
  
He nods. Maybe Solomons would give him some whiskey if he asked. If he begged. But he’s not ready to do that yet.  
  
“In a tunnel,” Solomons says, so quietly it sounds almost soft, “you let someone fuck you in a fucking _tunnel._ Knees in the mud.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No? I’d have thought so,” Solomons says and then shrugs, “well, anyway. Come on.”  
  
He follows Solomons through the rooms. In the bed, Solomons said but probably didn’t mean it. Maybe in the dining room. On the table. His face pushed against the wood, Solomons’ fingers on his neck, breaths growing louder. He clings into the thought. And Charlie is safe in his own room in the grand house where they live like someone who broke in through the window. They’re going to lose it. They’re going to -  
  
Solomons grabs his wrist. He’s in the bedroom doorway now. _Fuck._  
  
“You’re thinking about your boy,” Solomons says. “Your eyes go all the way soft when you do.”  
  
Tommy closes his eyes.  
  
“Look at me,” Solomons says, and suddenly there’s a hand on his throat, not squeezing, not strangling him, only holding his chin up. He opens his eyes again. Solomons is right there, almost at his face, too close. Too fucking close. He should pull out his gun and –, “That’s better,” Solomons says in a whisper, “now take off your clothes.”  
  
“No,” he says. He can hear his own heart echoing inside his skull. He’s not thinking about Charlie. He’s _not._  
  
“Yes,” Solomons says and holds his neck just a little bit tighter. “Don’t fuck with me, Thomas. Take off your clothes.”  
  
He laughs shortly. Solomons smiles at him and it sends a brief wave of terror through him. Everything else gets washed away. For a second.  
  
“You want to fuck me?” he says as quietly as he can, but Solomons hears him, Solomons hears him _just fine._ “Don’t fucking think that I’m just going to pull my clothes off and do it easy for you.”  
  
“Really?” Solomons lets go of his neck. He takes a deep breath and tries not to _think_ , and then Solomons places his hand on the side of his face and his breathing gets shaky. Solomons’ fingers are stroking him. It feels gentle. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on that. Solomons places a hand on the front of his trousers, presses it against him through the fabric. “You aren’t? I disagree, Thomas. I _disagree._ I think you’re going to take all of them off. For me.”  
  
He breathes in and out. Solomons’ hand is holding him through the layers of clothes, firm and determined. _Solomons_ is. He’s not. He’s nothing. He’s leaning into the touch, both on his crotch and on the side of his face. He’s not thinking. He’s not even totally here, just like in France, in the worst days which sometimes lasted for weeks. He’s not in Alfie Solomons’ bedroom, leaning into Alfie’s hands, waiting to be kissed. _Fucked._ Waiting to be _fucked._  
  
“Trousers first,” Solomons says and pulls away his hand, his fingers still stroking Tommy’s cheek and the line of his jaw.  
  
“Fuck no,” he says but can’t really focus.  
  
Solomons undoes his buttons and then pulls his trousers to his knees in one move. He takes a sharp breath. He’s staring at Solomons with his mouth half-open but who fucking cares.  
  
“Pants, then,” Solomons says. “You want me to do it for you?”  
  
He nods. Solomons grins at him and he shivers, and then Solomons takes a step back and sits down on the edge of the bed.  
  
“Not going to happen,” Solomons says and lights up a cigarette. “If you want your pants off, you’re going to have to do it yourself. Think about it, Tommy. You could just walk away.”  
  
“I could?”  
  
“Of course you could,” Solomons says, “but you aren’t going to.”  
  
“Give me a cigarette.”  
  
“No,” Solomons says slowly. “Take off your pants first.”  
  
Fucking hell. He’s not going to strip for Alfie Solomons. Fuck no. He came here… he probably came here to get fucked on Alfie’s table in the office. Alfie could have tucked his pants into his knees without the fucking fuss. Maybe he should walk away. He should go home and -  
  
He pulls his pants into his ankles and then kicks them away.  
  
“Oh, no,” Alfie says, watching him. “I thought you were more excited. I was pretty fucking sure about that a few seconds ago. It felt really nice against my hand, you know.”  
  
“Give me the fucking cigarette.”  
  
“Well, you asked so nicely,” Alfie says and passes him one. He takes it but doesn’t move, doesn’t walk away, doesn’t sit onto the bed. The cigarette pushes the taste of the wine away. The room is cold, too cold to stand here only dressed up from the waist. His head feels almost clear. He needs whiskey.  
  
“Solomons –“  
  
“I’m going to fuck you,” Solomons says and glances at the clock on the dresser, “say, in five minutes. So cut the crap. You can call me by my name. Thomas.”  
  
He swallows. “Alfie. Do you have any whiskey?”  
  
“Of course I have fucking whiskey,” Alfie says, “and you aren’t going to get any. Finish your cigarette and take the rest of your clothes off. No need to rush, though.”  
  
“Just me?” Tommy asks in between of the inhales.  
  
For a second he thinks Alfie looks actually surprised. “I thought your idea was to get fucked on the office table. I didn’t realise you’d like me to take my clothes off for that.”  
  
There’s nothing he can say to that. He puts away the cigarette and takes his coat off, and Alfie leans back on the bed and watches him, still looking slightly confused. He’s made Alfie Solomons confused. _Fuck_ that’s good. That’s the best thing he’s done in the whole fucking day, after he gave Charlie a kiss and -  
  
“Look at me,” Alfie says in a sharp voice, “look at me, Thomas. Look the fuck at me.”  
  
He blinks and Alfie starts undressing, quickly, like in a rush. He just stares. Alfie Solomons could easily hold him down if only the man got a good grip of him. Alfie could press him onto that bed with his face against the pillow. If not for the guns, and if they were alone like they’re right now, Alfie could make him do anything. Or he’s probably a lot faster but not tonight, tonight he’s frozen and sad and he can’t fucking bear being sad, he’s been sad long enough and he thought it had gotten easier. And now he almost got Charles killed. Grace would’ve -  
  
“Oh, no,” Alfie says, “no, no, _no._ Keep your eyes on me, Shelby.”  
  
“I thought we were using names,” he says and unbuttons his shirt. Then he takes it off and folds it on the back of the nearest chair.  
  
“You aren’t concentrating,” Alfie says. “Go to the bed.”  
  
Tommy pulls his shoulders back and stays where he is.  
  
“Thomas, go to the bed.”  
  
He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, and Alfie stands up from the bed, walks to him and puts his fingers around his cock. _Oh fucking hell._  
  
“I said get to the fucking bed,” Alfie says and holds him tighter, tight enough to make his breath get caught in his throat. That’s good. Of course that’s good. And then Alfie tucks him and he leans into Alfie’s hands, only Alfie pulls his hand away and takes a step back, wipes his palm on the sheets and watches him with a smile that should make him terrified. It does. A little. This is _good._ “And now you’re excited again,” Alfie says, “very good. Now. The bed.”  
  
He goes to the bed. His legs are shaking just a little. His head is hazy again but in a different way. Alfie Solomons is watching him, all of him. Alfie Solomons is staring at his cock. If he turns his back, Alfie will probably push him to the cushions and fuck him.  
  
He sits on the bed, facing the wall, and then pushes his elbows into the mattress.  
  
“What’re you doing?” Alfie says and there’s a rough hand on his waist, only not the way he thought, because Alfie is trying to turn him onto his back. “I didn’t tell you to kneel.”  
  
“You were going to –”  
  
“Shut up,” Alfie says and wipes his hand on Tommy’s head almost as if he’s trying to stroke Tommy’s hair, and Tommy almost laughs, “shut the fuck up. I’m going to see your face when I fuck you.”  
  
“My face.”  
  
“Yes. Your face. Your pretty face. Now stay there and don’t fucking move. I have oil.”  
  
_Oil._ That’s fucking ridiculous. Alfie Solomons isn’t going to try to make him feel good. This isn’t about feeling good. This is about not thinking. He opens his mouth but Alfie’s already walked to the dresser, and his naked back is facing the bed now. The man has scars and tattoos and in some places it’s difficult to tell those apart. And he looks strong. He looks -  
  
“You’re staring at my ass,” Alfie says and turns.  
  
“No. I was –“  
  
Alfie smiles and he drops the words. There isn’t anything he could say anyway. He waits until Alfie is sitting in front of him on the bed, a jar of oil in his hands.  
  
“On your back,” Alfie says.  
  
_Fine._ Thomas Shelby on his back in Alfie Solomons’ house. No one would believe him. No one would believe Alfie. And he’s not going to think about anything. He’s not going to think about how his boy almost - - - and Alfie pushes one slick finger barely inside of him and all his thoughts reach towards Alfie’s hands. The other hand is holding him by his waist, Alfie’s thumb stroking his hip bone, almost gently, almost, almost… _Fuck._ It’s been a long time. If they had done this on the table, in Alfie’s office, without the oil, hell it would’ve… but it’s not going to happen like that now. He closes his eyes and breathes in, and Alfie tells him to fucking look at him. He does. His legs are sprawled on the bed anyway, he has Alfie Solomons sitting in between his knees, he’s only drunk a glass of red wine and nothing else for _hours_ and his head hurts and he’s so sad it almost breaks -  
  
Two fingers. Three fingers. He can’t tell. It’s going fast enough to hurt. It hurts just enough, almost like Alfie knows what he’s doing. Every time Tommy’s thoughts begin drifting back towards -  
  
“I’m going to fuck you now,” Alfie says, “unless you think you can’t take it yet.”  
  
“Fuck me,” Tommy says and then bites his lip but hell, he can’t take it back now, and Alfie’s pulled his fingers away and there’s nothing keeping him from thinking about how - - “fuck me, fuck me already. I can take it.”  
  
“I’m quite excited about this, Thomas,” Alfie says and grabs his knees, pushes them just an inch wider, and he closes his eyes and breaths in, “ _look at me._ I’m excited about this. Give me your hand.”  
  
He does. Alfie holds his hand by the wrist and then wraps his fingers around himself. He’s holding Alfie Solomons in his fucking hand. It’s weird, it’s weird enough and all he can think about is the strange feeling, and then he wraps his fingers a bit tighter and moves his hand.  
  
“Fuck you,” Alfie says and pushes his hand away, “don’t do that or this won’t take long. I’ve been watching your pretty face and your pretty ass as you take my fingers for the last fucking five minutes. I told you I’m excited.”  
  
“Fuck me then.”  
  
“So, you’re asking for it now,” Alfie says. “You have to get your ass off the bed.”  
  
“I can’t –“  
  
Alfie grabs his hips, pulls him closer and then takes two pillows. “Fine. I’ll help you. But only because you’re so pretty and already in my bed and begging for it.”  
  
He nods.  
  
“Thomas Shelby,” Alfie says, “beautiful insane Thomas Shelby. In my bed.”  
  
“Just fuck me already,” Tommy says even if all of it is ringing in his head. _Beautiful. Insane.  
  
_ “Put your hand on your cock,” Alfie says. “I’m not going to wank you. But don’t fucking come before I say so.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Right,” Alfie says. “Now tell me how much you want me to fuck you.”  
  
“Just fucking –,” he starts and then Alfie pushes into him.  
  
Oh.  
  
_Oh._  
  
He doesn’t remember to wank before Alfie slaps him on his face, softly, too softly, and tells him to.  
  
There’s nothing he could do.  
  
Alfie Solomons is going to fuck him no matter what he does. He doesn’t have his gun. He doesn’t have his clothes. He doesn’t have his fucking cap. There’s nothing he could do. No thinking. No planning. No business. No messing everything the fuck up. No hurting the one -  
  
Alfie pushes into him harder and he lets go of that thought as well. There’s no use. He’s just a man in Alfie Solomons’ bed. Not Thomas Shelby. _Not._  
  
  _Live by the sword, die by the sword -_  
  
“Don’t fucking think,” Alfie says and places his palm onto Tommy’s, squeezing his fingers, squeezing his cock in between them, “I said don’t _fucking think._ ”  
  
He almost doesn’t.  
  
But then Alfie comes and he just stares at the man’s face that’s looking somehow softer now, until Alfie pushes his hand away and takes his cock and finishes him with a few firm tucks. He comes on his own chest and closes his eyes, and the world is soft with the sound of his heart echoing inside his head, and he’s sad. He’s sad.  
  
  
**  
  
  
There’s light in the room. It’s grey daylight, coming through the curtains.  
  
Alfie Solomons is lying on the bed beside him, his arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist. It’s heavy.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He takes a deep breath and feels the mattress shift.  
  
“Oh fucking –,” Alfie says next to him, his voice hoarse and low, and then the arm on his waist is gone.  
  
He sits up. He has a headache. Must be because of the head injury.  
  
“Thomas,” Alfie says, “I know you’re thinking about your son.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“But he’s fine. What happened to him isn’t going to happen again.”  
  
But it is. _Live by the sword_ -  
  
“And now you’re going to drive back home,” Alfie says, “and you’re going to spend the rest of the day with him. And then you’re going to believe that he’s alright.”  
  
He bites his lip. “Alfie –“  
  
“But first you’re going to have breakfast,” Alfie says, climbs off the bed and pulls on his pants. The man looks kind of smaller in the daylight, in the bedroom that looks like all the other bedrooms. It’s almost like they’re just people, him and Alfie. For a second it’s almost like that. “Take a cigarette and give me ten minutes.”  
  
“What’re you going to do?” he asks.  
  
“I’m going to fry you an egg,” Alfie says and walks through the door.


End file.
